Closure
by Shandethe Sanders
Summary: Based on the 1999 movie starring Johnny Depp. Brom Van Brunt survives his encounter with the Hessian Horseman, and joins forces with Ichabod Crane to stop him once and for all.
1. Prologue

Closure

(A/N: This is based on the 1999 movie version of 'Sleepy Hollow', starring Johnny Depp and Christina Ricci. Oddly enough, I found myself falling head over heels not for Depp (who seemed to have a monopoly on falling in that film), but on Casper van Dien as Brom Van Brunt. Oh, come on, he's a hunk. I was so angry when he was killed, and so I finally wrote this fic, in which he lives, and gets (wait for it) character development! Think he's nothing but a muscle-bound jerkwad? Think again.)

_Prologue_

The last thing he recalled was the water.

It rushed around him, and the weight of his clothes dragged him down. The water filled his mouth, his lungs, and finally consumed him. His exhausted body was swept up in the current, helpless to fight anymore. He despised being helpless—it almost never happened to him. There was no situation he could not fight his way out of...

There had been a flash of intense pain across his abdomen, and then a blow to the head, sending him crashing through the wall of the covered bridge into the whirling, ice-cold river below. Splinters and pieces of the broken wall rained down on him, piercing the water like raindrops on that still November evening.

The water had turned dark red, and he realized with a jolt that the water was tinged with his own blood.

_Where am I now?_

_Am I dead?_

It all seemed so dark here...and who was that above him, crying? The only woman he knew who would cry over him was his mother—but she never cried. And Katrina was probably busy mooning over Constable Crane....

The question repeated in his mind.

_Am I dead?_

"Not quite," was the reply. The voice was very familiar...

Brom looked up sharply. He was lying on the bridge where the Horseman had cut him. Standing over him, almost in triumph, was...Brom himself. It wasn't just a general likeness, a similarity of build—the man standing over him _was_ Brom, right down to the blue eyes, light brown hair and muscular build.

"And who are you, friend?" his double asked mockingly. "We have not heard _your _name yet."

Brom stared at this figure, real as the wooden bridge beneath him...or so it seemed. How could this be—what other devilish magic was at work in Sleepy Hollow?

"What are you?" he demanded, rising to his feet. Miraculously, he found himself uninjured.

His double shot him a sly glance. "I _am_ you."  
  
"That's impossible!"  
  
"In the mortal plane, yes," the double replied. "But _here_, anything is possible."  
  
Brom regarded the double warily. This had to be some kind of dream, unless...

"Am I dead?"  
  
"Oh no, you're still very much alive. Comatose, but alive." the double replied, with a grin that Brom did not at all like.  
  
"Coma who?" Now he knew this couldn't be a dream. He wouldn't use words he didn't understand.

The double sighed. "I must say, I _was_ hoping you'd be brighter. Now I suppose I see why the call you all brawn and no brains, eh, Bones?"  
  
His nickname, given to him by his friends in Sleepy Hollow, was mostly due to his strength. Brom knew he was reckless, though that did not make him brainless. In any case, he wasn't about to let this figment of his imagination have the last word.

Brom charged the double, aiming a furious blow with his fist. As soon as he struck, the double disappeared—then reappeared right behind him. He didn't even have time to blink before a massive blow knocked him back to the ground, on his hands and knees.

"So long as you're kneeling there like the pathetic dog that you _are_, pay attention," the double ordered. "I am your doppelganger. Or you are mine, depending on how you choose to look at it. I'm your avatar, your conscience. You are trapped here, between this world and the next. Shall I show you _why_ you're here?"

Brom paused. He didn't understand _any _of this. His double was regarding him with profound amusement, as though his confusion were a source of entertainment.

"Very well," Brom muttered. His double clapped his hands, a bright smile lighting his face.

"Perfect. Let's take this route into town, shall we?"

The moment Brom and his guide stepped off the bridge, the night was suddenly replaced by harsh daylight. The deep silence of the night was gone, in favor of the general hustle and bustle of a typical day in Sleepy Hollow.


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

His guide led him past the general store and the cobbler's, down towards the smithy where Brom worked.

It was a proud tradition in the Van Brunt family, and Brom had never questioned when his father trained him as a blacksmith, as his own father had done before him. And he had enjoyed learning something new, having never been afraid of a challenge. After his father's death, he and his younger brother Willem ran the smithy.

He heard the sounds of a hammer on metal from inside, the hiss of metal on water, and his guide stopped.

"Welcome home...in a sense," his double said, beckoning with his hand. Instantly, they were inside the smithy.

Brom saw himself—not his double, but rather a memory of himself, hammering a piece of metal. His brother had his back to the intruders, busy as he was with the cooling piece of metal he held with a pair of tongs.

"When is this?" he asked softly.

"Only a week before your battle with the Hessian Horseman," his double replied.

_Who knows if I'm the real Brom Van Brunt? For all I know, it's the memory, or that double with a bizarre sense of humor! What is real anymore?_

Contrary to popular belief, Brom was no fool. But he was by no means used to deep, brooding introspection. In his opinion, it wasted too much time—and there were always other things that needed doing. Now, however, he had no choice but to sit, watch, and think.

_I have a feeling I'm going to hate this._

He turned to watch his brother. Willem Van Brunt was a mere lad of seventeen, slighter in build than Brom, but retaining the same square jaw and blue eyes. His hair was a bit shorter, and much lighter. 

"We're almost done," Will said, as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "Just three more, I think." He sat down on the workbench, exhausted.  
  
The hammer stopped in mid-strike, and Brom glanced at his brother. "When was the last time you took a break?"  
  
"Er..."

"_WILL!"_

It was typical—Will often became too wrapped up in what he was doing to bother with trivial details like eating or sleeping. Smithing was one such activity, as were his studies. Will was the most intelligent person Brom knew, next to their mother. In truth, he was probably not cut out to be a blacksmith. He was happiest when reading, or fiddling with herbs.

"I'm sorry," Will replied contritely. "I didn't realize it had been that long."  
  
"Well, go outside and take a walk when you've caught your breath. You look as though you could do with some fresh air." He couldn't help but grin. "Otherwise you might just faint at Van Tassel's party tonight."  
  
Will threw him a withering look, and then sighed. "Pity Mother can't go. She loves parties."  
  
"Dr. Lancaster said she'd be up and about in another day or so. It's lucky her fever was so mild, and you took care of her well enough" Brom responded. "Besides, I'm not sure I want her there if Katrina turns me down again."

"If she keeps turning you down, why do you keep asking?" Will inquired.

"Why do you keep trying to make sense of love?" Brom asked with a wry grin.

"More like, why do I keep trying to make sense of _you?"_ Will laughed, taking off his apron and throwing it at Brom, who caught it easily.

"Go on and take a walk," Brom said. "I'll finish up here."

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Brom turned to his guide. "Why are you showing me this? It's just a memory."  
  
The guide rolled his eyes. "Exactly. It's _your_ memory."  
  
"What does it _mean_?"  
  
"Simply that to understand where a story will end, we must sometimes revisit the beginning," his double replied. "What are you complaining about? Be a sport, Bones, and sit back to enjoy the show!" 

After bidding their mother goodbye, Brom and Will set out for the Van Tassel home. As usual, Will tried to hide in the nearest corner—he'd always hated crowds. But Brom, obeying his promise to Mrs. Van Brunt, dragged him out and forced him to mingle.

"Come on now, you don't want to be rude," Brom coaxed, though it was somewhat unnecessary as he was holding Will firmly by the back of the collar.

"There are so many people here," Will whispered fearfully.  
  
"I know. It's called a party. Lots of people go to them, and eat and drink and dance."

Will glared at him. "I know that, you great oaf! Let me go!"  
  
"I will, as soon as you—"  
  
"Hello, Brom. Will," came Katrina Van Tassel's voice from somewhere to their left. Still holding Will, Brom turned to her.

"You're looking well," he said. But then, she always did—especially when she wore that pink gown.

"Consider the compliment returned," Katrina replied with a gracious smile. "Given your dislike for formal attire."  
  
It was true. Brom was about as comfortable in his brown suit with its lace cravat as he would have been in a hair shirt. Come to that, the hair shirt would have at least allowed him to turn his head.

"Well, you two don't seem to need me, so—"Will attempted to duck out of Brom's grasp, but he pressed his brother firmly to his side, keeping one arm around his shoulders.

"I hate you," Will grumbled. Brom laughed.

"Oh, let him go, Brom," Katrina pleaded, though she was obviously holding back laughter. "What are you going to do? Tie him to your side?"  
  
Brom's eyes lit up. "That's not a bad idea," he said thoughtfully. "I could use my cravat."

Will groaned. "Thanks a lot, Katrina."  
  
"I'm sorry."

"Besides, if I don't keep him with me he'll just drive himself mad in some dark corner, brooding about what some egghead writer has to say," Brom remarked.

"What's wrong with writers?" Katrina asked.

"Nothing, but I don't see why people get so worked up over words on a page."  
  
"But don't you think that words on a page can be powerful?" Katrina always did this to him—asked him questions that never would have occurred to him; that he had no idea how to respond to. And no matter what, he felt as though his answer was always wrong to Katrina.

Brom struggled for words. "Yes, but I don't see the sense in brooding over them, especially if there isn't anything you can do about it. Why waste the energy?"

"My brother, the noble work-horse," Will said with a smile—his first of the evening. Brom responded with a playful swat at Will's head.

"I think I'll go have some ale," Will said hopefully, glancing at Brom and Katrina in turn.  
  
Will was quite devious when he wanted to be—where Brom charged headlong, Will came up from the side and attacked. He knew perfectly well Brom wanted to speak to Katrina alone. Sighing, Brom released his brother.

"Drink more than a pint and I'll skin you," he cautioned, as Will disappeared into the crowd.

"Do you really think he will?" Katrina asked.

"No," Brom replied with a grin. "But I might, and one of us has to drive the carriage home."

Katrina laughed. They'd known each other since childhood, their mothers having been the best of friends. Brom's mother, Griet Van Brunt, had often joked with Elizabeth Van Tassel about a possible marriage between their two firstborn children. But it had never been a joke to Brom.

_Am I fooling myself? Does Katrina care a jot about me, beyond our friendship?_

It was true, they were good friends. Through the years, Brom had loyally kept Katrina's addiction to tales of romance a secret, and taught her to ride a horse astride. And Katrina had always laughed at his more harmless practical jokes, teased Willem, and helped put words to Brom's thoughts. He never seemed to know the correct ones.  
  
Sometimes Brom thought that if someone else came to Sleepy Hollow—a man who was well-read, well-mannered and everything he was not, he would lose Katrina forever. She was like a princess in a fairy story.

_And I'm...what? Certainly not the noble knight. The knave? The jester, perhaps? I don't even know what a knave is!_

Suddenly his friend Glen appeared behind Katrina, holding a finger to his lips. Brom bit back a smile.

"What?" Katrina asked suspiciously, then gave a yelp as Glen tied the blindfold over her eyes. 

"Come on, Pickety Witch!" Theodore, his other friend, crowed. "Let's form the circle. Brom, spin her around, would you?"  
  
Snickering, Brom took Katrina by the shoulders, and spun her as gently as he could.

"This is such a silly game," she said, giggling. "Oh, be a sport and stop complaining," Brom replied through his laughter. She lunged toward him, but he edged away from her, and she moved towards the other side of the circle, chanting. 

"Pickety witch, pickety witch, who's got a kiss for the Pickety Witch?"

That was when the stranger appeared, dressed oddly in black, which created a stark contrast against his white skin. It was impossible to tell his age—he might have been anywhere from twenty to thirty. His face was a controlled mask. And Katrina's hands caressed the man's face in a way that they had never touched Brom's...

Fighting back a surge of ugly jealousy, Brom moved toward the stranger.

"Is it Theodore?" Katrina asked, still touching the stranger's face.

The stranger replied in the negative, obviously flustered. "Pardon, miss, I am only a stranger."

"Then have a kiss on account," she replied, and pressed her lips to his cheek.

Brom fought the impulse to simply chuck the man out of one of the large windows. Who did he think he was, invading the town like this? Especially now! Of all the—

"I'm looking for Baltus Van Tassel," the stranger stammered, his dark eyes darting around the room nervously.

"I'm his daughter, Katrina Van Tassel," she replied, taking off the blindfold.

"And who are you, friend? We have not heard your name yet," Brom pointed out, stepping up next to Katrina.

The stranger regarded him warily, and then turned away. "I have not said it," he replied coldly.

Brom's well-documented temper flared, and he grabbed the stranger's shoulder and spun him around.

_I'll teach you to dismiss Brom Van Brunt!_

"You need some manners!"

"Brom!" Katrina was visibly alarmed. His grip loosened just as Baltus and Lady Van Tassel entered the room.

"Come, come! There will be no raised voices here! It is only to raise spirits that I and my dear wife have given this little party," Baltus said. Brom released the dark-haired man and stepped back, his eyes never leaving the stranger's face. It was extraordinarily pale, as were many people from the city (according to rumors), and delicate. But there was fire burning in the stranger's dark eyes, like a knight from one of Katrina's stories.

He found his way to Katrina's side, placing one hand on her arm as the stranger introduced himself as Constable Ichabod Crane, there to investigate the recent beheadings in Sleepy Hollow.

Brom did _not _like the way Katrina seemed to be drinking in his every word. He liked it even less when Lady Van Tassel invited him to stay in their home.

Eventually Baltus, Lady Van Tassel and Constable Crane left to get him settled, ordering the band to begin playing again.

Will appeared behind Brom and Katrina. "Well, that was different," he said brightly.  
  
"I should say so!" Katrina replied, glancing in the direction the constable had gone. "I hope he is able to do what he came for."  
  
"Is anyone?" Brom asked, desperately wishing he could drive this damnable stranger from her mind. "Katrina, might we go outside for a moment? There's something I wish to say to you."

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A shot rang out as Brom was dressing for work that morning. Katrina's refusal still echoed in his mind. The sadness in her beautiful, clear eyes as she tried to let him down gently—again.

He poked his head out the window, only to hear what he had been dreading.

"_I'm sorry, Brom. I love you as a sister loves a brother, or as a friend loves another friend. I cannot be your wife."_

"Murder! The Horseman's killed again!" Van Ripper shouted, his voice slashing through the fog of Brom's thoughts.

"Oh, hell," Brom muttered. _Who is it this time_?

Downstairs, he heard a piece of crockery smash on the floor, and the maidservant cry out in alarm. Once out in the hallway, he encountered his mother, still in her dressing gown, her graying brown hair loose around her face.

"What in seven hells was that?" Griet Van Brunt demanded with her usual lack of subtlety.

"Another murder, from the sound of it. I should go and see."  
  
"Brom, don't you think--"

"I know what I'm doing, Mother! Anyway, the Horseman's not going to attack anyone during the day. Or at least, he hasn't yet."

"You said they had a constable from New York looking into it. Why not let him handle this?" His mother's practical nature reasserted itself.

Brom was now halfway down the stairs. "Let's just say I have a few doubts about his abilities," he called back. Finally managing to locate his rifle, he set about loading it—just in case. He strapped the weapon across his back, and headed for the front door.

One foot was out the door by the time Brom realized that he was not alone. Turning around, he smothered a groan when he saw Will standing behind him.

"Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"To the opera, where do you think?" Will replied sarcastically. "I'm going with you!"  
  
"No, you aren't. Stay here at the smithy, and look after Mother."  
  
"If she heard you say that, she'd kill you."

Brom knew this was probably true, but he wasn't about to lose the argument on that particular note. "You're still not going."

"Why not? I'm almost of age! You're not Father, Brom!" Will exclaimed in frustration.

That made Brom freeze in his tracks, and he whirled around. "No, I'm _not_ Father. Glad you picked up on reality at last."

"I only meant...you're my brother, you don't have to be responsible for me." Will's tone softened just a little.

Brom fixed his brother with a hard look. "Why not? Someone has to do it, and it's not as though you try very hard at it!"  
  
Will looked furious, but by that time Brom was already heading toward the noise.

By the time he reached the clearing, he was already feeling more than a little guilty about his remark to Will. The boy was constantly daydreaming, but he did have sense when he chose to use it. Unfortunately, he didn't use it nearly as often as Brom would have liked.

He met Glen and Theodore on the side road, where they were waiting for him. It always amazed Brom how his two friends never seemed able to do anything without him. In some ways, it drove him insane. Still, like him, they managed to find the fun within the ordinary, and for that he valued them—though he'd never have said so aloud.

"Who was it?" he greeted them, before any civilities could be exchanged.

Glen glanced over his shoulder, and nodded to the clearing just down the road, where one man was kneeling next to the headless corpse, while another stood by, white-faced. The three made their way to the dead man's final resting place.

"Send for the funeral cart," Baltus Van Tassel instructed, and one of the men set off to do just that.

"Who was it?" Brom repeated. If someone didn't answer him, he was going to scream—or possibly hit someone.

Baltus seemed to notice Brom and his friends for the first time. "Jonathan Masbath," he replied.

Ice gathered in the pit of his stomach, and slowly crawled up Brom's throat. The damp chill of the gray autumn morning only heightened the sensation of foreboding that hung over them all. It seemed that not even a leaf dared to stir in this place, not after the 'Headless Horseman' had been there.

And then Brom thought of Jonathan's son. Poor lad—at least when Brom's own father died, he was of an age to help his mother. But young Masbath had no mother. What would happen to him? Who would tell him the news?  
  
Brom Van Brunt was not usually prey to such thoughts, but he was not callous, and hoped that the boy could be spared from the worst of this tragedy.

He glared around the trees, silent in the morning stillness. Brom was almost daring the Horseman to come out now, and have another try—with victims willing to fight back.

_Never again, Hessian!_


	3. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

"And now," Brom's double said, "We're going to explore the benefits of existing outside this mortal plane."  
  
Brom—the real Brom—stood watching himself snicker as Ichabod Crane rode up on horseback, looking ridiculous on the old nag of a horse named Gunpowder. It had seemed a good deal funnier then.

He turned to his double. "What do you mean?"  
  
With an infuriating smile, the double pointed to a spot in the foliage, which was moving ever so slightly. It could have been rabbits, or squirrels. But as Brom moved closer, he discovered the true source of the movement.

"_Will?!"_ he exploded.

Willem was crouched behind a tree, half hidden by the leaves of a fallen branch. He was peering out at the scene before him intently, oblivious to Brom or his mysterious guide.

"It may have been the Witch," Theodore murmured to Glen. Brom, who was preoccupied with watching Crane, merely nodded absently.

Ichabod Crane, who up until that moment had been carefully examining the body, looked up. His black eyes were narrowed in annoyance.  
  
"There is very likely no such person," he snapped. "And even if there is some old woman living in the woods, I very much doubt she rides about decapitating people. Where would she get the horse, for a start? Or the sword?"  
  
"Then what about the Horseman?" Glen asked.

"There _is_ no Headless Horseman!" Ichabod insisted. "These rustic notions of yours, these backwoods fairy tales, are nothing more than that—utter fiction! They are, I would wager, probably much easier to face than the fact that someone in Sleepy Hollow is a vicious murderer!"

Anger flared up in the back of Brom's throat, but he choked it back. He couldn't very well thrash Crane for his arrogance in front of the town elders. He'd have loved to smash the constable's face like a pumpkin.

It was then that he had a most brilliant idea....

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"Yes, we know," Brom's guide said with a sly smile. "That _was_ rather amusing, but I think that you will be far more interested in where your dear brother goes in his spare time."

Brom looked up, and saw that Willem had left his hiding place, just as the funeral cart arrived. That was why Brom hadn't noticed him them—Will had untied his horse from the nearby tree, and quietly ridden away...directly into the Western Woods.

"What do you mean?" Brom demanded, wanting nothing more than to sock his double in the jaw. After a moment's reflection, he realized how truly bizarre that would be, even if he was actually successful. 

"Follow me, Bones, and see."

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Will's trail took them far into the Western Woods—further than Brom had ever remembered going. There was hardly a sound now, no animals stirred in this clearing of the woods. Even Will's horse seemed nervous as he rode to the large rocks, so shaped that they could almost be a dwelling.

Will dismounted hastily, and pounded on the door to the dwelling. A moment later, the door creaked open, and the veiled figure of a wizened woman in pale gray stood before him. With a start, Brom realized that she could only be the Western Woods Crone.

"It's happened again," Will said flatly. "You know what I'm talking about, and the rumors are starting. If they don't find a culprit soon, they'll come for you."

"I know," the Crone replied. "It is good of you to tell me, child."  
  
"The least I could do, after you healed my injury when I fell from my horse last winter," Will responded, looking slightly embarrassed. "I'd have died out there otherwise. And to teach me to do magic as well..."  
  
"You have learned little from my teachings if you think you can 'do' magic," the Crone snapped. "You can invoke it, but the magic comes from the earth, and from _knowing._"

"I do know that," Will said. "I'm sorry, Mab. I wasn't thinking."  
  
The Crone—Mab--smiled. "So you were not. But you will improve, I am sure."  
  
"The Horseman," Will said suddenly, changing the flow of conversation. "He's real, isn't he?"  
  
"You know he is!" Mab hissed. "You've felt the change in the air, the very atmosphere of this place...the evil radiates like heat from a fire!"

"Can we stop him? You're very powerful. Perhaps, together you and I could do a spe—I mean, invoke the earth magic—"  
  
"It doesn't work like that," Mab replied. "Don't you understand? That kind of magic is different from what I have been teaching you. Invoking spirits is something else entirely."  
  
"I don't want him invoked. I want him gone, before someone else dies! Do you know something that you aren't telling me?"

"I know that you are not the one to stop him," Mab informed him. "I have seen it in the cards."

"What do you—then who—"  
  
"He will come to me soon. You should go back now, and be with your family. Use your earth magic to protect them, young Willem. It is all you can do for now. Blessed Be."  
  
It was a queen's dismissal—purposeful, yet tactful and polite. Certainly not the sort of conversation this part of the woods often witnessed.

Will inclined his head, sandy hair falling forward into his eyes. "I will, Mab. Thank you, and Blessed Be."

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"This is madness," Brom murmured. "Will is a _witch?_ He never said a word to me!"  
  
"He wouldn't, would he?" His guide responded, raising one fair eyebrow. "Most people don't have pleasant associations for witchcraft, and everyone thinks that the Crone is in league with evil spirits. "  
  
"But I'm his _brother!_"  
  
"Exactly. Do you think he could bear to lose your love, or your loyalty?" Brom's guide smiled. "You are being shown this for a reason, Bones."

Brom's fury erupted. "You still haven't told me why! If this is all, then I can forgive Willem--"  
  
"Forgive?" His double asked in disbelief. "What is to forgive? Has dear Will committed a crime in being a witch? He uses his magic for good. There is good magic as well as bad magic, did you not know?"

Brom scowled. "And which are you, pray tell?"

His guide laughed. "That, my friend, is for you to decide. Shall we move on, then?"

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It was a sight Brom would treasure for a long time. Ichabod Crane, his eyes wide with fear, knocked off his horse by the flaming jack-o-lantern that Brom had thrown at him, while disguised as the Headless Horseman.

Brom and his friends had a good laugh over it. It was his favorite kind of prank, and heaven knew the constable needed to be taken down a few notches. And the damned fool had _fainted_! Well, that wasn't a surprise—what could a person expect from a foppish city ratcatcher?

Two days afterward, the town magistrate Samuel Philipse, had lost his head. It was Brom himself who had discovered the unconscious Crane and the corpse of Philipse. He had picked Crane up off the ground, surprised at how light the man was, and rode with him on his horse back to the Van Tassel manor, where he'd breathlessly told Baltus of the situation.

Watching it all over again was torture, now that Brom knew how it ended. He wanted desperately to do something, _anything_, to change the course of the past. Why was he being shown all this, if he could do nothing to alter it?  
  
"Whoever said you couldn't alter it?" his guide had snapped, when Brom had voiced his displeasure for the umpteenth time. "The time will come. When you understand, the time will come."  
  
"Understand _what?!"_ Brom exploded.

His guide laughed, making Brom long to hit him more than ever. "You will know, when the time comes."

"When—"  
  
"When we've finished!" his guide replied with a wide smile. Brom let out a deep, frustrated breath. It was going to be a very long night.

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Griet Van Brunt was outside, chopping wood for the fire, when Brom came outside the next morning. Since seeing the aftermath of yet another Horseman murder, he was feeling more helpless than ever. For her part, his mother seemed unusually dedicated to the chore. Her hair was braided and twisted like a crown around her head, and the front of her simple gown was covered in wood chips.

"Mother, what are you doing? If you wanted more wood, you only had to say so."  
  
Griet rolled her eyes. They were the same shade of blue that she had passed on to her two sons.  
  
"I'm not a glass ornament, love," she replied wryly. "And I'm fully recovered."  
  
"All the same, you should be careful—"  
  
"For heaven's sake, Brom!" Griet cried in mock exasperation. "I've already had the same speech from Dr. Lancaster, and I'm _fine._ I used to go hunting with your father, don't you remember? Hard work is nothing new for me."

Brom smiled. In some ways, he and his mother were very much alike. Griet had despised being confined to her bed. She disliked helplessness as much as he did.

"Well, what's wrong, love?" Griet asked.

Her point-blank manner shouldn't have surprised him. All the same, he was temporarily flustered by the question.

"You didn't come out here just to lecture your frail old mother," Griet teased. "Out with it, Brom."

"Philipse," he replied. "I found him...Mother, he's one of the town leaders. If _he's_ not safe, then who is?"  
  
His mother neatly cut the piece of wood neatly in half. "Philpse was, and I don't like speaking ill of the dead—a disreputable drunk. But no one deserves to die like that, poor man."  
  
"It's just..." Brom paused. How could he put these feelings into words? "We're up against a ghost. How can we know where he'll strike next, or even how to stop him?"

Griet let the axe rest on the chopping block. "I imagine you're not the only one who feels this way. Still, that constable—"  
  
"Oh, yes, Constable Crane," Brom said mockingly. "He wasn't hurt by the Horseman, did you know? He fainted! How can such a man defeat something so evil?"  
  
His mother paused, deep in thought. Finally, she spoke.  
  
"I don't know that Constable Crane," she mused aloud. "But it seems to me there's more than one kind of courage. I think he's probably very brave, in his own way."  
  
"What way? Mother, he hasn't come out of his room since the murder! Katrina told me earlier."  
  
"I'm not surprised!" Griet retorted. "I daresay after seeing a ghost, anyone might do the same."  
  
"But it's useless!"  
  
"Of course it is," Griet folded her arms across her chest. "He knows it. That's why he'll get over it. Constable Crane may be strange, but he's also rather determined. Of course I only known what I've heard from you and others, but sometimes you can get a good idea of a person that way."  
  
His mother did have a point. Crane did seem determined to solve the case, as haughty and arrogant as he was in the process. And yet he was as frightened as a young girl at what he might discover, and what he _had_ discovered.

A shout from the smithy disrupted the flow of conversation. Both Griet and Brom ran toward the source of the noise.

Will had accidentally reached for a piece of metal he'd thought was cool from the fire—but, of course, it hadn't been. He was left with a rather nasty burn on his left hand. For Will to be distracted was normal. It wasn't normal for him to be careless. He hardly ever did anything _that_ foolish.

With the ensuing trip to Dr. Lancaster's, and the care that his brother consequently needed, Brom did not hear the news till later, when Glen came by to tell him. He'd just heard from the Van Tassels' servant girl, Sarah, that Ichabod Crane and young Masbath had gone into the Western Woods alone, to seek out the Horseman.  
  
Brom was astounded. He'd thought Crane a coward, and a fool—but not reckless. What if they failed to return? What would that bring next for Sleepy Hollow?

"Why the hell didn't they take anyone else?" he demanded.

Glen had shrugged, pulling a face. "No one else volunteered."  
  
Brom could understand that, but he clenched his fist nonetheless. "Have they returned?"

"Not yet. They left about three hours ago."  
  
Rolling his eyes skyward, Brom's fists clenched in frustrated anger. "Devil take you, Crane, but you'd damn well better find _something_!"

Glen nodded in agreement. "Should we patrol tonight?"  
  
Brom nodded grimly. It didn't look promising for any of them, the outlook as bleak as the gray sky above him.  
  
"We'll meet here, at seven," he replied. "Plan on it. We'll show the Hessian there are a few men from Sleepy Hollow still willing to fight!"


	4. Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Darkness settled uneasily over Sleepy Hollow, as Brom ordered Glen and Theodore to split up. They would cover more ground that way, and with any luck, be able to find the Horseman before he claimed his next victim.

It seemed like hours passed as Brom remained on his horse's saddle. The horse himself, a brazen stallion named Lucky, was clearly disturbed by the supernatural presence that plagued the village. Lucky shifted, and snorted in the cool evening air.

He couldn't say how long he was there before he heard the scream. He rode toward the sound, clinging on to the desperate prayer that maybe, just maybe—

And then he'd seen the Horseman in the doorway of the Killian home, carrying a bag stuffed to full capacity. Brom had no illusions as to what was in that sack. He only hoped that Crane and young Masbath were not among the victims.

_I'm too late._

A surge of anger swept over him, and he gritted his teeth. The Horseman would not claim another victim, not if he could help it. Taking careful aim, he fired.

His aim was true. The Horseman was hit squarely in the chest, and Brom dismounted, still holding his rifle.

Then his stomach dropped somewhere near his feet. Because as soon as he reached the Horseman, he sat up.  
  
_But how can he—_

It didn't occur to Brom that a walking ghost could not be dealt with the same way as a hunted animal. He bent down to reload his rifle. It didn't occur to him that two bullets would not be any more effective than one had been. All he knew was that he had failed to protect the Killian family.

The Horseman walked right past him, and Brom was nearly knocked over by the stench of rotting flesh and bone that radiated from the ghost. Taking a deep breath, Brom attacked the Horseman with his rifle, using it as a club.

Then everything began to blur. It was as though it were happening in flashes, instead of a continuous series of events in his memory. All he knew was that he had to stop the Horseman. He couldn't let him claim another victim.

The Horseman blocked his attack, sending him flying to the ground.

Brom got up, charged his enemy—he threw his hunting knife, and it landed directly in the Horseman's back.

His enemy turned—the dagger flew back almost before Brom could process—

The pain was intense, like fire—

--find a new weapon, must hurry!

Brom's eyes lit on a pair of scythes in the hay, left outside a nearby barn. He limped over and seized them.

--_Constable Crane!_

Ichabod Crane was by his side, disheveled but alive. Brom could only assume that meant young Masbath was alive, also. He was indescribably relieved.

"He's not after us!" Ichabod cried.

Brom shrugged him off. He had to get to the Hessian before he struck again—it could be anyone next. Himself, Will, Katrina—anyone!

_Over my dead body, Hessian!_

"I'll get him!" Brom growled.

--he struck with the scythe—

--Horseman was undeterred by the hit—Brom tried again—

Crane finally landed a hit with an axe, and Brom rushed to stand by him. The pain in his leg was getting worse...

"We cannot win this!" Ichabod shouted, and Brom was forced to agree. They had to get to safety. It had suddenly hit him that he would not be of help to anyone if he, too, were killed.

--_the covered bridge!_

He and Crane saw it at the same time, and ran toward it. Ichabod reached out to help Brom, as his limp slowed him down. There was fear in Crane's eyes, but at the moment that didn't matter. The fear was not in control, and he and Brom were on the same side.

Finally, they reached the other side of the covered bridge.

_Thud._

_Thud._

_Thud._

Slow, deliberate the ghost have made himself invisible?

_Where was he?_

_Thud._

___  
Thud._

Then it hit him. _He's on top of the bridge!_

Both he and Crane looked up, and something large and heavy dropped almost noiselessly behind them. They turned, meeting one another's eyes briefly—

_NO!_

The Horseman's sword struck, this time in Ichabod Crane's shoulder, flinging him head over heels.

He wanted a fight. And Brom, though weakened, was going to give him one.

Strike, parry—

_I can't win this._

The blood loss was making him dizzy—

_Almost got him_—

The pain seared across his abdomen, flashing like lightning—

Something struck his head—

_Crash!_

Flying—

Falling—

The shock of cold water...red mist engulfing him—

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"The tour is over," Brom's double said, with the same irritating smirk. They stood on the bridge, now devoid of any human life.

"What happens now? Do I die?" Brom asked, turning to face his double.

The double smiled. "That's for you to decide, Bones. Do you want to live, or die? You won't win against the Hessian, you know. Will you still return?"

Brom thought of the others in Sleepy Hollow. His family and friends. He couldn't leave them, not even to fight a losing battle.

"I will," he said clearly.

Then he heard a new voice...it sounded like Willem, but from very far away...

"_Herb for healing,_  
_ Herb for hope_  
_ Herb for strength_  
_ Herb, help me cope,"_

"They're calling you," his double said quietly.

Will's voice grew stronger...

"_I call on thee, spirits of water,_

_ Earth, fire and air, to aid me in this healing!_

_ Thrice I bind thee, and so with nine calls, you will heal!_

_ Brom be well, Brom be free of sickness!_

_ So mote it be!_

_ So mote it be!__  
So mote it be!"_

And then he was falling again, flying through empty space and time—

Then everything went black.


	5. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

The pain was dull, but persistent as Brom struggled to open his eyes. He tried to speak, but only managed a low groan.

"Brom?" It was his mother's voice.

He groaned again.

"His fever has broken," came Will's voice, from somewhere above him. He sounded exhausted...

"Thank God. You were up all of last night with him," Griet replied, her voice thick with emotion.

Brom's eyes opened at last. He was in his own bedroom, covered to the neck in warm blankets, with a few candles lit. His mother was seated in the chair next to his bed, and Will was leaning against the doorframe. It was night, though Brom could not tell if it was still the same night or not. How long had he been asleep?

"Will...." He did not even recognize his own voice, and his throat was unbearably dry.

His brother was at his side in an instant. "Brom?"

"I've had...my dreams have..." Brom broke off, coughing.

Suddenly a cup of water was pressed to his lips, and with Griet's help, Brom managed to sit up and drink some of it. The cool drink helped to clear his mind considerably.

"I've had the strangest dreams," he murmured. "The Horseman got away...I couldn't stop him..."  
  
"Shh, Brom, it's all right," his mother said soothingly. "We know you tried."

"Crane..."

"He's fine, or will be soon," Will said. "You were lucky, Brom. If Glen and Theodore hadn't seen you fall and pulled you out of the river--"

"No, there's...I need to talk to Crane..." Brom said, trying to clarify.

"There will be time for that later," Griet said firmly, her eyes glittering strangely in the dim light. "Go to sleep, Brom. We'll send word to Constable Crane...just rest, my love."

Will was turning to leave, his fair hair catching the light from the hallway candles.

"Will...thank you," Brom said quietly. Will looked at him curiously, but made no reply. He was obviously surprised and puzzled.

At last, Brom closed his eyes, and slept.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the next morning, Brom was feeling a good deal better, though not quite his usual self. Griet and Will, however, were adamant in refusing to let him leave his bed. He had sulked initially, until Will had pointed out that the Horseman was still on the loose, and that Brom wouldn't be any help against him if he injured himself further. As usual, his younger brother was right.

Griet brought him hot porridge for breakfast. He dug in gratefully, surprised at how hungry he was. His mother watched him, scrutinizing how much he took with each mouthful.

"Want some?" he offered, holding out the dripping spoon. Even injured, he couldn't resist the opportunity to tease his mother. She claimed to hate women who fussed and fretted—and here she was, doing precisely that.

His mother jumped back. "Don't you dare get that on the bedspread, Brom Van Brunt, or I'll hang you out to dry!"

Before he could respond, a knock sounded at the door.

"Brom, you have a visitor!" Will called from the other side.

Polishing off the last of the porridge, Brom set the bowl down on his bedside table. "Who—"

The door opened, revealing Ichabod Crane, with Will at his heels.

Crane looked pale, but that was nothing new. What struck Brom was that the shadows under his eyes seemed deeper, the only outward sign of distress. Everything else was concealed behind the mask of his stoic expression and immaculate clothing.

"I don't believe we've met. You must be Constable Crane," Griet said, standing up to greet the new arrival. "I'm Griet Van Brunt, Brom's mother. I am told that if it was not for you, I would be mourning the loss of a son."

Ichabod bowed slightly, going rather pink about the ears.

"I have come to speak with Brom," he said gravely. "I hope he is well?"  
  
"I'm right here, Crane," Brom said, not bothering to conceal his annoyance. "So you can ask me yourself, you know."  
  
Griet looked amused, and glanced at Will, who was still standing in the doorway. "Come on, dear," she said to her younger son. "We'll just be in the way."  
  
"But Mother—"

Griet's back was to Brom, but he knew the look she was giving Will. He sighed, and followed her down the hall and out of sight.

Brom's blue eyes rose to meet Ichabod's deep black ones. "You're alive." he stated simply.

"So it would seem."

There was an awkward silence as the two men contemplated each other. Brom was well aware of Ichabod's true mettle, though not quite sure how to admit that he might have been mistaken. He had no idea what Crane could be thinking—probably what a stupid oaf Brom was to have nearly gotten himself killed going after a murdering ghost.

But there was something deeper. Both had witnessed something strange and terrible, a supernatural being that did not belong in their world. No human was meant to see what they had seen. Now they were joined by this common bond. And Brom, for one, was not sure he liked it.

Crane was brave, certainly. He was, however, the object of Katrina's fascination. Brom had no desire to like him, let alone admire his courage...and yet the feeling was ever present.

"How are you?" Ichabod asked.

"Better," Brom replied. "After I woke, that is. When I was asleep...my dreams were strange. I can't describe them."  
  
"I also had nightmares, though I don't know if mine were related to the Horseman." Ichabod remarked. Suddenly his voice became harsh as he stepped closer to the bed.

"There is something important you must know. The Horseman does not kill at random," he said tightly. "His victims are chosen, by someone with control over him."  
  
Brom paused, his thoughts racing to catch up with Ichabod's. "Someone human?"  
  
"I believe so."  
  
"That's madness! Who would do such a thing?" Brom exploded.

"Someone with the skill for treachery at his disposal—Baltus Van Tassel," Ichabod replied.

"You are mad," Brom said at last. "Baltus van Tassel, pillar of the community, a dark witch? Why on earth would he do such a thing?" 

Crane's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What makes you say witch?"

In an instant, Brom realized he had almost betrayed his own brother. Will would never harm anyone, but Crane didn't know that.  
  
"I can't imagine that the Hessian Horseman comes back from the grave just because someone asks politely," Brom replied, trying to cover his slip of the tongue with sarcasm. "Anyway, what if you're wrong? What if _I'm_ the one controlling the Horseman? You could be digging your own grave by telling me this."  
  
Crane rolled his eyes. "First, you were nearly killed by the Horseman yourself. Second, given what has been said about you in the village, and by Miss Van Tassel, it does not seem to be your style. Third, I very much doubt you have the patience or concentration that spellwork would likely entail."  
  
Brom's temper flared, and he felt the overwhelming desire to hit Ichabod Crane. When he had managed to regain his composure, he raised his eyes to Ichabod's again.

"I think you're wrong about Baltus Van Tassel. To do this sort of thing, you would need to be....you would need _power_, unnatural power." Brom said at last.

"For the record, I agree with you," Ichabod said quietly. "At least about power. But I have discovered at Notary Hardenbrook's that Baltus Van Tassel was next to inherit Van Garrett's estate."  
  
"He woke the dead to kill Van Garrett, just to inherit some land?" Brom was puzzled. "But then why kill the widow, and Mr. Masbath? And the Killians—how did they stand in Van Tassel's way, assuming for one second that this mad theory of yours is right?"

"The widow was secretly married to Old Man Van Garrett. His son knew, as did Mrs. Killian, and presumably her husband as well, as the Widow Winship was carrying Van Garrett's child. Who would have threatened Van Tassel's chance at a fortune irrevocably."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Forever."

"Oh," Brom said. His brow furrowed in thought. "But why hide the marriage? Van Garrett had nothing to hide, and would have been free to make an offer for the widow's hand whenever he chose."  
  
"But he did have something to hide," Ichabod replied soberly. "From one person, someone he knew and feared. The marriage was a secret for that reason—he was trying to protect his wife and child."  
  
"They were discovered," Brom said, catching on. "But how? And by who? I still can't believe it was Baltus Van Tassel, of all people."

"You have known him for a long time?" Ichabod asked.

"All my life," Brom responded. "Since they came to Sleepy Hollow years ago. That was back when they lived in the cottage. My father used to talk about the people that lived in the cottage before them...I don't remember what they were called. They left town, anyway."

"When was that?"

"Around the winter of '78." Brom said. "That's just a guess, mind you."

"I see." Ichabod stood up to leave. "Thank you, Mr. Van Brunt. You have been very helpful."  
  
"Just a moment, Crane!"  
  
Ichabod stopped with his hand on the doorknob. "Yes?"

"I heard about you going into the Western Woods with young Masbath...the next time you think to do anything so foolhardy, you'd best call on me first. I'd like another shot at the Hessian, if it's all the same to you."

"Your first wasn't so successful," Ichabod said, a rare smile playing around his lips. "Very well. I will call on you. It would be good to have another ally in this place. Young Masbath's waiting downstairs. I'd best leave."  
  
"Good luck, Crane."  
  
Ichabod opened the door and stepped out. His footsteps barely sounded on the wooden floor, and caused on the barest of creaks on the stairs as he made his way down.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

An hour later, Will entered, brandishing a cup of some strange liquid. Brom regarded the odd smell coming from the liquid warily.

"What's that?" he asked, not sure he wanted to know.  
  
Will handed Brom the cup. "Drink," he ordered.

"You sound like Mother," Brom groaned, accepting the cup but holding it at an arm's length. "What is this, anyway?"

"It's a mixture to help with the pain," Will replied. "I didn't put anything in it you couldn't identify, so drink up."

Brom drank, although the liquid did not taste as bad as it smelled—tart and spicy at the same time.  
  
"It will take some time to work, but with luck, you should be up and moving in a day or so," Will said.

"Good," Brom responded. "Someone's got to help Crane, since..."

He stopped short. _Had_ Will been the one to summon the Horseman? He wouldn't have done so on purpose, but...if it was an accident, perhaps they could still mend it before anyone else was hurt.

"What do you know about the Hessian, Will?" he demanded. Brom had never been subtle, and had no wish to learn to be.

Will swallowed hard. "Only what everyone else knows, Brom. Why are you asking me this?"

"You're a witch," Brom said, his gaze meeting that of his brother's. "Don't ask me how I know—I do. Did you summon the Hessian?"

Will turned white, and looked around wildly, like a cornered animal trying to find an escape. "How can you think I would do such a thing? People have _died_, Brom!"  
  
"It might have been an accident—"

"You _cannot_," Will snapped derisively, "raise the dead by _accident._ There are particular rituals that have to be performed, and power that has to go into those rituals. It's impossible to do something of this nature without pure intent."

He paused, catching his breath. "How did you know I'm a witch? I never told you, or even Mother."  
  
"I saw it in one of the strange dreams I had last night," Brom said. "I'm starting to wonder if it really was a dream...it felt so _real._"

Will's expression softened, and he looked at Brom with a newfound respect.

"Everything that's strange is happening in this town," Will commented, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I suppose that's why I wanted to learn magic...I wanted to be able to defend myself, and my family. I'm sorry I couldn't. She wouldn't tell me how to stop him."

"The Western Woods Crone?" Brom asked.

Will promptly fell off the bed with a loud crash.

Throwing back the blankets, he reached down to help his brother back up. "Are you all right?"

"You saw that in your dream, too?" Will asked, ignoring the question and getting back to his feet, with Brom's help.

"Yes. You called her Mab."

Will smiled. "When I first met her, I thought she was a fairy. That's why I called her Mab, after the fairy queen in the stories that Katrina used to tell. She rescued me last winter—don't you remember that day when I rode into the Western Woods and didn't come back until almost nightfall?"  
  
"You fell from your horse," Brom said, remembering the dream. "And she helped you."

"She cleaned my wounds and cared for me—even cared for my horse," Will replied, still smiling. "I started coming back, bringing her food and supplies. She didn't often need it, but she accepted my help and taught me magic, to heal and protect. I don't know anything else about her, though—not her real name, or where she comes from...she always wears that veil of hers, even in front of me."

"You don't believe that she raised the Hessian?" Brom asked, and regretted the question immediately.

"I know she didn't!" Will exploded. "I know what Reverend Steenwyck says about witches, but he's only half right. Mab wasn't evil, just strange. I can't imagine why she would raise the dead when she knows perfectly well that she would be blamed for it!"

Brom sighed. "I'm sorry, Will."

Will sighed, too. "I know. I shouldn't have lost my head like that. I'm sorry, too. Just—don't tell Mother. Not yet."  
  
Brom nodded, feeling as though a new closeness had grown between himself and his brother. They wished for the same thing—to protect what was dear to them. Will had gone about it in a different way, but that did not change his intentions. He had meant well.

Then he remembered his conversation with Crane, and blanched. Will took notice, and immediately began to rearrange the blankets that Brom had thrown back earlier.

"Crane thinks it's Baltus Van Tassel that summoned the Hessian," he said, waving his brother off.

"That's madness!" Will exclaimed. "Are you sure that's what he meant?"  
  
"Plain as day," Brom agreed. "Is he a witch?"  
  
"If he is, he's quite the actor," Will remarked, his eyebrows arching. "I can't imagine Baltus summoning evil spirits for any reason."

"Neither can I," Brom replied. "But someone is—and it's someone from the town. It has to be. Someone that we _know_."  
  
Will's brow furrowed in thought. "That would mean that someone in this village, that we see every day, harbors a hatred so deep that they resorted to dark magic to terrorize—and we never knew!"

"That's not all, " Brom interrupted, feeling sick at Will's revelation. "Crane believes the victims are chosen beforehand. Their deaths are no accident."

His brother's eyes widened. "Do you mean that if Crane hadn't found you in time, the Hessian would have—"

"No," Brom replied, shaking his head. "I think I understand now. He was sent out to murder the Killians that night—Crane and I were in the way."

"This is madness!" Will cried, running a hand through his hair, which was already standing on end. "Good God! You could have been killed! Any innocent person might have been!"  
  
"Exactly," Brom conceded. "That's why I asked Crane to let me help him. I saw him that night...he fought bravely, even though he was afraid."  
  
Will rested one hand on Brom's shoulder. "Are you telling me you weren't?"

"No, I wasn't afraid." Brom succeeded in keeping a straight face for all ten seconds. "I was terrified. But I want to stop him, if I can."

"You'll be fit for action again soon," Will promised. "We'll stop him, Brom. Whoever is controlling the Hessian, we'll find him."  
  
Brom found himself nodding. "We will."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

By the next day, Will's elixir had done the trick. Brom was feeling a thousand times better—well enough to get out of bed, wash, and dress. Dr. Lancaster had proclaimed it nothing short of a miracle when he had come to see how Brom was faring that morning.  
  
Some of the lesser wounds, those not inflicted by the Hessian, were still present. But the cuts inflicted by the Hessian's sword seemed to be healing quickly, and for that, Brom was grateful. Sitting still for long periods of time was not something he excelled at.

His mother had exhibited some initial concern, but eventually Will had helped to persuade her that Brom was well enough to assist in the investigation.

This was why Brom was on his way to the Van Tassel house that morning. It occurred to him suddenly that Katrina had not come to see him. Even stranger was the fact that, since his encounter with the Hessian, Brom had not thought about her before now.

_But I love Katrina. Don't I?_

_If you have to ask, that's probably not a good sign,_ he thought.

He loved the picture that Griet Van Brunt and Elizabeth Van Tassel had painted so long ago, imagining their children happily married. The women had meant no harm, of course...the only danger being that one of their children might not feel the same about the other. It was sinking in that Katrina did not love him...if she had, she would have been at his side.

"Brom?" a man's voice interrupted his thoughts. He stopped at the gate, waiting for the other man to catch up.

"Good morning," Brom said, as Baltus Van Tassel reached the gate.

"Glad to see you're all right, boy," said Baltus with a warm smile. "We were all worried about you."

_Except Katrina,_ Brom thought dourly. Out loud he said, "I'm fine now. Is Constable Crane around?"  
  
For some reason, this caused Baltus to look around. He turned back to Brom, his face pale.

"What?" Brom asked.

"Don't mention his name. I didn't tell Reverend Steenwyck that he was still here, otherwise—"  
  
"What's happened?" Brom demanded.

"Inside," Baltus ordered. "I'll tell you there."

Baltus lead him through the vast yard, and through the kitchen door.  
  
Brom had entered the Van Tassel kitchen many times. As children, he and Katrina used to sit by the hearth and listen to Elizabeth Van Tassel read them tales of romance and adventure. When they were a little older, Brom had kissed her for the first time in this room.

However, when he stepped inside, Katrina was nowhere to be seen. Only Lady Van Tassel and Ichabod Crane occupied the room at present, involved in a whispered conversation, which was promptly cut off when Baltus spoke.

"The town is in ferment," he announced, apparently not noticing the whispers. "Notary Hardenbrook has been killed—hanged himself in the night."

"That harmless old man?" Lady Van Tassel cried, her eyes wide with horror. 

Baltus nodded. "I found out when I went into town this morning—it was on my way back that I ran into Brom here."

"I came to see Constable Crane," Brom said by way of explanation, bowing politely to Lady Van Tassel, and gesturing to Ichabod. He turned back to Baltus. "Why didn't you want me to mention his name outside?"

Ichabod's dark eyes narrowed as he glanced at Brom and Baltus in turn. "What do you mean?"  
  
"Reverend Steenwyck's called a meeting tonight in the church—every man, woman and child. He's going to speak out against you, Constable. If you're wise, you'll leave while you have the chance. The people are afraid, and they'll be willing to follow Steenwyck when he gives the word—and I believe that he will."

Ichabod's jaw tightened. "I will go when I have done what I came here to do," he said firmly.

Brom shook his head. "You really are mad," he commented.

The corners of Ichabod's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. "At least I am in good company."

While Brom was trying to work out whether or not that was an insult, Lady Van Tassel had gone to put a comforting hand on her husband's shoulder.

"What's this?" Baltus asked, and Brom's eyes flickered to a long, nasty gash on Lady Van Tassel's palm.

"I was careless with the kitchen knife," she replied airily.

Brom did not hear what else was said, because his focus was on Ichabod. His entire body was tense, and his gaze was fixed on Lady Van Tassel's wound.  
  
"Outside," Ichabod said in Brom's ear. "Hurry."

Without interrupting the couple's conversation, Brom and Ichabod slipped out into the corridor. Ichabod did not stop walking until they reached the parlor, where he closed the door and bolted it.

"Crane, is there a reason you're doing this?"

Ichabod turned back to him, ignoring the question. "Tell me, Brom, what do you know about Lady Van Tassel?"  
  
Brom regarded Ichabod suspiciously. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"What I'm asking is...does she have romantic liaisons?"  
  
Brom let out a guffaw of laughter. He couldn't help it.

"Stop that, you'll bring the whole house in here!" Ichabod snapped. With a good deal of effort, Brom managed to stifle his laughter. "The point is that I saw her with a lover last night."  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"As sure as I am seeing you," Ichabod responded. "That's how she got the cut on her hand. It was with a knife, but not of the variety usually found in kitchens. Apparently, her lover has a lust for blood."  
  
"And who is her lover?" Brom asked, choking back another laugh.

"Reverend Steenwyck," Ichabod informed him.

"You can't be serious. Are you sure it wasn't Dr. Lancaster? He'll flirt with anything in a petticoat, you know." Brom remarked.

"I am positive," Ichabod replied. "And keep your voice down. Lady Van Tassel made me promise not to tell her husband. She said that she was in Reverend Steenwyck's power...he knows something about Baltus, and what I witnessed, according to her, was the price of his silence. I am assuming, from your reaction, that Lady Van Tassel's doings were not known?"  
  
"Not _those_ doings," Brom replied, his eyebrows raised. "Lady Van Tassel and Reverend Steenwyck...all I know is, I'll never be able to listen to his 'sinful lust' sermon with a straight face ever again!"

"Villainy wears many masks, none so dangerous as the mask of virtue," Ichabod said, as though reciting something memorized long ago.

Brom was about to ask him what the devil _that_ meant, but just as he opened his mouth, someone knocked at the door, pounding frantically. Ichabod opened it, and young Masbath stood on the other side, out of breath from running.

"Constable! Miss Katrina's just left, and I went up to your room—all your papers are gone!"

Ichabod raced out the door, young Masbath and Brom at his heels. He stopped at the front door.  
  
"No, I will go alone. Brom, you and young Masbath stay here. Keep an eye on Lady Van Tassel."  
  
Brom would have liked to argue, but the look on Crane's face would brook no argument. It astounded Brom that one person could have such two very different sides to their personality. In any case, they were wasting time. Whatever Katrina was doing, it wouldn't bode well for Crane's investigation. And like it or not, Brom was involved now. Crane was the only hope left for Sleepy Hollow. He wasn't much of a hope, but he was all they had. And Brom was going to do everything he could to get rid of the Horseman once and for all. He sighed. If Crane asked him to stay, then he would stay.

_Damn._  
  
"You would serve us all better here," Ichabod said, catching his breath. "Brom...please."

"Very well," Brom said reluctantly. "Just try not to faint this time."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Five

(A/N: Well, I wanted to update this before Halloween, so here you go. More Brom goodness. Enjoy!)

Brom was not sure exactly how long Ichabod and Katrina had been gone. He and young Masbath wandered around the manor and its grounds, being careful to stay out of Lady Van Tassel's way. Brom had a difficult time of this, having never been much for subtlety. However, they had seen Baltus and Lady Van Tassel leave for the town meeting together, so they had assumed their duty was temporarily over.

_This cloak and dagger ritual is madness,_ he thought, stepping over a stray branch as he and young Masbath made their way to the church. _I'd rather have a brawl, instead of this hiding and waiting! I'm going to go mad if this goes on for much longer…_

Young Masbath had said little during their journey. His brow was furrowed, and Brom could tell that he was not the only one who was worried.

"Why would Katrina burn Crane's papers?" Brom wondered aloud.

Young Masbath looked up at him. "Constable Crane suspected Miss Katrina's father. Perhaps she found out."

"Oh. That makes sense," Brom said after a moment's thought. Why hadn't _he_ thought of that? It seemed so obvious. He probably would have done the same, although his solution probably would have involved flattening Crane's nose, had the constable suspected anyone in _his_ family.

Night was falling as Brom and young Masbath arrived at the church. Outside, the townspeople were jostling each other to get inside. The anticipation of terror in the air was almost as thick as the ever-present fog.

"There's Katrina!" young Masbath exclaimed, pointing. Sure enough, Katrina Van Tassel's blond hair was visible even in the crowd. "But where's Constable Crane?"

"Let's ask her," Brom said, striding forward to the church steps. Young Masbath had to run to keep up with him.

"Katrina!" he called.

Katrina turned to him, her hazel eyes wide with surprise. "Brom!"

Jumping down from the steps, she took Brom by the hands. "I'm glad to see you. Are you feeling better?"

Brom smiled. It wasn't the overjoyed reaction he'd been hoping for, but then, beggars couldn't be choosers.

"Do you know where Constable Crane is, Miss Katrina?" young Masbath inquired, before Brom could answer.

Katrina opened her mouth to reply, but a man's shout interrupted her.

"The Horseman! Save me!"

"Father?" Katrina cried, as the figure on horseback galloped toward the church. Baltus Van Tassel dismounted, and Brom noticed that his hands were shaking.

"He killed her! The Horseman has killed your stepmother!" Baltus exclaimed, his face white as a sheet.

"Lady Van Tassel is dead?" Brom asked in disbelief. It seemed impossible…he had spoken with her just this morning…she had been alive and well then…

Baltus nodded, and Katrina flew into his arms. Looking over his shoulder, Brom finally noticed another figure advancing on the church. It moved silently through the shadows, and finally stepped out into the open.

_Crane._

"Get inside the church," Brom urged Baltus and Katrina. "If he's coming, the men will fight him off."

"He wants me next," Baltus responded, though his eyes were not focused on Brom. "And God knows who else."

_Not on my watch, Hessian,_ Brom thought. Glancing through one of the church windows, he could see Will's face pressed against the glass. At least he was safe. And that meant Brom's mother was safe as well.

Just then, they all looked up as a horse's screech pierced the air. Soon after, hoofbeats sounded through the fog. Brom knew that sound all too well. Against his will, his heart began to pound, and his breath caught in his throat.

"Get inside!" he shouted, just as the Hessian appeared, as though etched from the mist.

Finally, Baltus and Katrina did so, as the remaining townspeople fought to get inside the church. Brom and young Masbath caught up with Ichabod Crane as he ran to join the frightened people.

"Still think Van Tassel summoned the Horseman?" Brom asked dryly, as they stepped inside the church.

"I am willing to consider another opinion," Ichabod said stiffly. "Does that please you?"

"What would please _me_ is getting this demon back where he belongs!" Brom exploded.

The inside of the church was utter pandemonium. Women and children were making for the cellars, while the men prepared to defend themselves. In between, other villagers were in various states of panic. The scene would have been almost comical, had the situation not been so dire.

"Brom!" Griet Van Brunt rushed over to him, throwing her arms around his neck. "I was so worried. Are you—"

"I'm fine," Brom said, as gently as he could. "You ought to go down to the cellars, Mother."

"And wait quietly for the Hessian to find me there?"

"He won't," Crane broke in, his dark eyes flashing. "He's only here for one tonight. Baltus Van Tassel."

Griet frowned. "Will told me about your theory as to someone raising the Hes—"

"Look!" Crane was pointing out the window. Brom saw the Hessian toss an axe at the fence surrounding the church—only to have it disintegrate completely.

"What is this new sorcery?" Brom asked quietly.

"Sanctuary," Crane answered, his gaze fixed on the Hessian. "He can't enter the church."

"That's good, isn't it?" Will asked uncertainly, shooting Crane a sidelong glance.

A musket shot interrupted the conversation, as some of the men had taken up arms against the Hessian. Young Masbath ran to join them. Brom almost followed him, but Will held him back.

"It won't do any good! Have you learned nothing?" Will demanded. "Bullets won't hurt him!"

"Do you know any magic that will?" Brom asked.

Will hesitated. "Perhaps. But even if I did, I couldn't cast any spells in this mob."

More shouting was coming from behind them, and the two brothers turned. A group of men were attempting to drag Baltus Van Tassel toward the door. Crane darted between them.

"Stop this! The Horseman cannot enter! He cannot cross the gate!" he cried.

"He's coming back!" Hans Van Ripper shouted over the din.

"We have to save ourselves!" Reverend Steenwyck exclaimed, pointing at Baltus.

In an instant, Baltus had snatched Crane's pistol from his pocket, and aimed it at his former captors. "The next one to lay hands on me will have a bullet!"

This had to be some sort of nightmare. People did not turn on each other like this, as though courage did not exist. Men and women Brom saw every day were now strangers to his eyes. They appeared the same as always, but, like the doppelganger from his strange dream, were not at all that they seemed.

Brom didn't know what would happen, but he knew he had to act. "Will, take Mother down to the cellar! Now!"

"I—"

But he never heard the end of Will's sentence, because he had charged headlong into the budding riot. To his shock, so had Dr. Lancaster. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his brother pulling Griet toward the cellar door.

"Enough have died already! It is time for us to confess our sins!" Lancaster cried.

"What is it that you know?" Baltus demanded.

"Your four friends played you false," Lancaster admitted, looking steadily at Baltus. "We were devilishly possessed by one who—"

Suddenly, a sickening _crack_ sounded at the back of Lancaster's skull, and his eyes rolled back. He collapsed, and Brom instinctively reached out to catch him. There was no need, however—Lancaster was dead. Behind him, Reverend Steenwyck stood holding a heavy wooden cross, now stained with blood.

Panicking, Baltus pulled the trigger, and the Reverend collapsed to the floor. Brom knelt on the floor, still holding onto Dr. Lancaster's lifeless form, unable to process what had just happened.

_This isn't like me! Where's Brom, the town hero? Where's the leader of the famous Sleepy Hollow Boys?_

The answer was simple. Outside threats were expected, even anticipated. Threats from within were a different battleground—and in that new battleground, Brom was weaponless.

Other men lunged for Baltus, but he dashed up the stairs to the pulpit, pistol aimed. Releasing Lancaster, Brom stood up. Whatever happened next, he knew, was going to end in tragedy.

"There is a conspiracy here!" he roared. "And I will seek it out!"

The window shattered just behind Baltus, and before anyone could move, an iron fence post had impaled him. He was still alive, still standing…his eyes wide with fear and disbelief. Katrina, standing pale-faced next to the stairs, screamed.

Then Baltus was gone, as the Horseman reeled him out of the window. Brom could not see what was happening, but he saw Ichabod run to Katrina. Then came a horrible sound from outside…the distinct sound of a blade slicing through flesh.

_Baltus is dead!_

That was when Katrina fainted.

Brom dashed over to the pulpit, where Crane was trying to revive the fallen Katrina. She lay perfectly still, her golden hair fanned out behind her. Beyond the pulpit, the bodies of Dr.Lancaster and Reverend Steenwyck were sprawled among the debris, like fallen soldiers on a battlefield. In one night, the remaining town elders had been decimated.

Crane was staring at something in Katrina's hand. His pale fingers closed around the object, and held it up.

"Chalk?" Brom murmured, as young Masbath joined them.

"Sir, look!" the boy cried, pointing. Brom's eyes darted toward the direction young Masbath was pointing. "The Evil Eye!"

There, on the floor of the church, was a strange, arcane symbol drawn in pink chalk. The same color as the chalk in Katrina's hand. Looking from Crane's stoic expression to young Masbath's horrified one, Brom wrinkled his brow.

"But what's it doing _here?"_

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Most of the residents of Sleepy Hollow had fled in terror after the events of the previous night. The Van Brunts were one of the few families that remained, though Brom had done his best to try and persuade Will and Griet to leave with the others. The victims of the previous night's melee had been taken to Dr. Lancaster's former office, to be laid out and properly buried.

Now Brom was in the sitting room of the Van Tassel house, staring into the fire. Katrina had not yet recovered from her faint, and was asleep upstairs. Griet was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.

In a way, Brom admired his mother's resolve. _When in doubt, cook. _Half the town was either dead or leaving, and she was making porridge and toast as usual.

They had spent the night at the Van Tassel manor, and Brom's neck was rather sore from falling asleep in Baltus' favorite armchair--or what had _been_ his favorite armchair. It still had not processed in his mind that Baltus and Lady Van Tassel would never come back to this house. _Never._

He glanced across the room at his brother. Will was asleep on the sofa, his fair hair resembling a haystack after a particularly bad windstorm. Young Masbath was curled up beside him, both covered by Brom's frock coat. He couldn't help but envy their peace, having barely gotten a wink of sleep himself.

Brom looked up as the sound of the door opening interrupted his thoughts. Ichabod Crane stood in the doorway, immaculately dressed as always. If he was at all disturbed by the events of the night before, it did not show on his face.

"I came to see Katrina," he said, holding his head high, almost daring Brom to refuse him.

Ichabod had refused to explain the mystery of the pink chalk and the Evil Eye symbol, though Brom had asked many times. He had simply gone to bed—or so he'd told them. Brom had heard footsteps all through the night, as though Ichabod had been pacing until dawn.

"She's upstairs, still asleep. Mother's making breakfast, if you want any—"

Ichabod dashed up the stairs.

"—thing," Brom finished, addressing the room in general. He gave a loud sigh of frustration. If someone didn't start explaining things soon, he was going to break something.

"Breakfast is ready," Griet announced, poking her head through the kitchen door. "Is anyone hungry?"

Brom nudged Will's shoulder. "Time for breakfast, you two. Wake up now."

"I'm awake," young Masbath replied, stretching his thin arms and yawning.

Will groaned, and rubbed his eyes. "Is it morning? It feels like we just went to sleep."

The three shuffled into the kitchen, where Griet had a hot breakfast waiting. There was little conversation as they ate. Somehow it seemed inappropriate, almost disrespectful, to talk about trivial town gossip after so many had died last night.

Young Masbath finished first. "I'm going to find Constable Crane."

"He's upstairs with Katrina," Brom informed him. Young Masbath nodded, and left the kitchen. Brom took another sip of his coffee, looking out the window.

Was the Hessian truly gone? Had he finished his work? It seemed possible, but there was no way to be sure. It all depended on who had summoned the Hessian in the first place. But why had they done so? Surely it couldn't be to get hold of property. Brom was not ignorant to human nature, but it seemed a bit extreme to call spirits from the grave only to achieve wealth.

"Mr. Brom! Mr.Will!" cried young Masbath, bursting into the kitchen and careening into Griet. The plate of toast she had been holding crashed to the floor.

"Sorry, ma'am," he apologized. "But Constable Crane's leaving! He thinks Miss Katrina's the one who raised the Headless Horseman!"

"_What!"_ Griet, Brom and Will demanded in unison.

"That's impossible!" Griet cried.

"She would never!" Will exclaimed.

Brom's thoughts raced. _The pink chalk…the Evil Eye…could Katrina have drawn it? If she knows something of witchcraft…no, it's not possible. Katrina wouldn't harm anyone, even if she were a witch._

"Where is he going?" Brom asked, fixing his gaze on young Masbath.

"Back to New York City, sir. Says his work is finished here," young Masbath responded. "His coach has just left!"

Brom pushed his plate away, and stood up. "How long ago?"

"Only just now, sir."

He threw the door open, eyes blazing with anger. "Not if I have anything to say about it!"

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Racing into town, Brom spurred Lucky to go faster. Bits of dirt, grass and horse droppings flew up from the ground under Lucky's hooves. Above them, the sky was pale and grey. He did not see Crane yet, but he could not have gotten _that_ far ahead so soon. At long last, he spotted Van Ripper's carriage.

"STOP!" he bellowed, riding up alongside Hans Van Ripper, who nearly dropped the reins in surprise.

"What's going on?" he demanded. Brom didn't answer. He simply dismounted from Lucky, and pounded on the carriage door.

The door opened, and Ichabod Crane stepped out. His pale features were as expressionless as ever. With a flare of anger, Brom seized him by the arm, and practically dragged Ichabod from the carriage.

"What is the meaning of this?" Ichabod demanded, wrenching his arm back from Brom's grip.

"You're _leaving,_" Brom spat.

Ichabod glared at him. "Obviously."

"And you think _Katrina's_ the one behind all this?" Brom gestured emphatically, indicating the frightened villagers, who regarded the stopped coach warily.

"Keep your voice down!" Ichabod snapped.

"Here now, are you going or not?" Van Ripper asked, fiddling with the reins impatiently.

"Give us a moment," Ichabod replied. He turned back to Brom, his dark eyes unreadable.

While Van Ripper moved the carriage to less obtrusive spot, Ichabod drew Brom into the shade of a nearby house.

"The facts all point in the direction of Miss Van Tassel," Ichabod said quietly. "I cannot ignore them. But word of her guilt must never come out, do you understand?"

"What facts?" Brom hissed.

"The fact that Miss Van Tassel is well-versed in witchcraft, and has been casting Evil Eye curses on me. I found the symbol under my bed, precisely like the one on the floor of the church. She also has motive—with her father and the others out of the way, she gains everything."

That was the most ridiculous thing Brom had ever heard.

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard!" he exploded.

"The facts clearly—"

"Damn the facts!" Brom snapped. "I _know_ Katrina, she can hardly kill spiders! And you're telling me that she's summoned a demon to kill her family and friends for the sake of her _inheritance?"_

"Do you think this is easy for me?" Ichabod asked, real emotion seeping into his voice. "I don't want to believe it of her."

"Then why do you?" Brom asked quietly.

"The truth is no one's friend, Mr. Van Brunt," Ichabod said, his stoic expression back in place. "What you or I want is of no consequence."

He turned away from Brom, signaling to Van Ripper. He was just mounting the steps of the carriage when something fell from his coat pocket. Ichabod did not appear to have noticed.

"So that's it, then?" Brom demanded. "You just leave us to fight the Hessian by ourselves?"

Ichabod paused in the carriage doorway, and looked over his shoulder at Brom. "The danger is over, Mr. Van Brunt."

Brom knelt down, and picked up the object that Ichabod had dropped. It was a small, worn book. He did not pause to glance at the title.

"You dropped this," he said coldly, tossing it back to Ichabod. He turned his back, furious with Crane for leaving them at such a time...and for believing Katrina capable of such an extreme act of evil.

_Very well, Crane. We shall fight on our own--and win. Don't you know by now that logic and reason have no place in Sleepy Hollow?_


End file.
